Poems by Hiromi Itō -- from Wild Grass on the Riverbank - Part 2

Mother led us along and we got on boardWe got on and off againBoarding cars and busses and planesThen more buses and trains and cars

I was beginning to think that life would go on forever, it would go on forever, but one day it stopped all of the sudden, that day wasn’t especially different from all the others we spent aboard all those buses, trains, cars and airplanes, when we left the airport just like always, mother was smiling and there was a man in front of us, he pressed his face which was covered with bushy jet black whiskers against mother’s face, he stuck his tongue in mother’s mouth, wriggling it as it goes in, then he grabbed mother’s breasts, shoulders, stomach, and hips and gave them a hard squeeze

Mother made little sucking sounds at the man’s mouth, closing his eyes, the man made a little groan as he tasted mother’s saliva, sniffed her scent, stroked her skin and her flesh, when the man removed his mouth he spread his arms wide and said ohh mai ohh mai and hugged me and my little brother, he put us into a gigantic car, the sky was blue there, it was really, really blue, we drove for several hours, for several hours beneath the blue sky before we arrived at the big house in the wasteland, there was a sprinkler in the yard and it turned on at nightOhh mai, it would soak everything in sight

Mother told us where to sleep then went into his bedroomAt the crack of dawn, there was a loud noise, the sloshing noise of rinsing a mop in a bucket of water, the slippery sliding sound of scrubbing, the sound of mother’s voice as if she was singing or breaking down in tears, this went on for days and days on end, at first it woke me up but with time, I got used to it and didn’t get up anymore

During the day, mother used words we didn’t understand to tell the man every teeny tiny thing my brother and I say, then they started talking to us in those same words, at first I had no idea what they were talking about, but then with time I got used to that too

Then mother started standing in unfamiliar stances, walking with an unfamiliar walk, cooking with unfamiliar foods, she made us eat us her cooking, it was still good even if she used unfamiliar foods just because she made it, we realized we were gobbling up her food left and right

Mother gave off an unfamiliar scent, that man was always at the dinner table, mother embraced and stroked us in unfamiliar ways, such things have happened before, mother would settle down with a man, she’d drag us into it, and every time we’d get dragged right in as if it were no big deal at all

Mother didn’t get on board anything anymore, we didn’t trail after mother any more or walk from airport to airport like our lives depended on it, one day that man used an unfamiliar name to call out to mother, she responded as if nothing was the matter at all, Mother says he’s finding fault with you

Who cares about a name as long as you’ve got one?Words fulfill their usefulness as long as they get throughYou two, mother said to us, Let’s not use Japanese any more

I was eleven, my little brother was eightWe stopped speakingBut when we spoke to each other or to mother We continued to use nothing but JapaneseWe stopped speaking except in JapaneseWhen people approached, we fell silentWhen they left, we started speaking againWe spoke JapaneseJapanese was all we hadWe spoke only JapaneseI started pricking up my earsMy little brother did tooFor years and years, we pricked up our earsOne day I tried asking my brotherAre you listening to something?He answeredI can’t hear anythingI tried asking againAre you listening to something?He answeredI’m not listening to anythingWe pricked up our ears for years on end

One day when I woke up, there was a baby’s car seat next to my pillow, and in it is a fresh little baby, ohh mai gossh, a fresh little baby, I asked, when did you get that? mother said yesterday, mother’s belly was still swollen like she’s still got more babies in her womb, babies to whom she hasn’t yet given birth, the baby started crying like a little cat, mother bared her breast, it was an altogether unfamiliar shape, it had swollen up and become dark and fierce, it smelled so raw and fresh that I had to hold my breath, the little baby shifted its little head and started sucking on it, mother took out the other breast and exposed its heavy, swollen shape, right before our eyes it began to bend and twist and the tip split open, and the milk flew out in an arc, my brother screamed eeewww, mother said try it, try sucking it, it’s sweet, you’ll be sure to like it, we hesitated, then mother grabbed my little brother and forced it into his mouth, the breast looked much bigger and fiercer than my little brother’s head, and mother looked still bigger and fiercer than that, the bubbling milk came squirting from its smiling, split tip, with resignation my brother took it in his mouth, mother squeezed and stroked it two or three times, I heard the sound of him swallowing one gulp after another, gurooosu, he said, his mouth dripping with her white milk

The wind changed directionsSo it blew from the desertDry as a boneIn the distance, a mountain burnedA mountain burned, raining down ashesThe ashes blocked out the sunWe could look at the sun with our naked eyesThe plants turned to corpsesDry as a boneThe sage released its intense aromaThe rabbits and coyotes turned to corpsesDry as a boneWhen winter came with its rainAll grew wet, moss grew, sprouts came out, flowers bloomedThe cacti and yucca grew long and lankyEverything beneath heaven became a seaEveryday the sun fell in the sea

Mother said, I’d like to start rowing, rowing over there to the other side of the sea, she said this in Japanese, if we go over there, no one will probably tell us to come back ever again, mother looked at the sea

When we came hereI was eleven, my little brother was eightSince then we’ve tried using JapaneseBut the sounds that drip from our mouthsWhen just the two of us talkOnly emphasize how much we’ve forgottenMy little brother and I push sounds out our mouthsWe push sounds out our lips and palatesWe extract them from our noses, catch them on our tonguesWe leak them out unintentionallyOne day, my brother saidI katto my finger There’s blood trickling from it His words were a mixture of English and Japanese One day, my brother saidSis’, what’s my name? do you know?I say to himIt’s Zushio1My brother saidNo one can say it, no one can pronounce itNo one can say my name at allI repeated to himIt’s ZushioThe baby grew bigger and began blabbering baby talkSaliva dripped out of its mouth the whole timeThen before long it began forming wordsAs if to deride my brother’s distress

This all happened long agoMother led my brother and I along And we got on boardWe got on and off and on againBoarding cars and busses then planesThen more buses and trains and carsWe got on boardAnd began to moveStill, no matter how much we moveOur journey still does not end

Notes:

1. Zushio is the name of a boy in the medieval legend of Sanshō the Bailiff (Sanshō Dayū). In this story, a boy and his older sister Anju are separated from their parents and sold into slavery. Left to their own devices, they grow up on their own, without the help of any authority figures.

JEFFREY ANGLES is an Associate Professor of Japanese and translation studies whose translations of leading contemporary Japanese poets have earned the Japan-U.S. Friendship Commission Prize for the Translation of Japanese Literature, the PEN Club of America Translation Grant, and a National Endowment for the Arts Translation Grant. He is the author of Writing the Love of Boys: Origins of Bishōnen Culture in Modernist Japanese Literature, and his translations include Tada Chimako’s Forest of Eyes, Takahashi Mutsuo’s Intimate Worlds Enclosed, Hiromi Itō’s Killing Kanoko, and Arai Takako’s Soul Dance.

* This was first published as "Hiromi Itō - from Wild Grass on the Riverbank," translated from Japanese by Jeffrey Angles in The Asian American Literary Review, Spring 2012: Generations. This article was first published in The Asian American Literary Review Spring 2012: Generations. The AALR has generously shared several of the forum responses, poetry, and prose with Discover Nikkei from this issue by David Mura, Richard Oyama, Velina Hasu Houston, Anna Kazumi Stahl, Amy Uyematsu, and Hiromi Itō (translated by Jeffrey Angles).

Author

Hiromi Itō is one of the most important poets of contemporary Japan. In the 1980s, she wrote a series of collections about sexuality, childbirth, and women’s bodies in such dramatically new and frank ways that she is often credited with revolutionizing postwar Japanese poetry. Since she moved to the U.S., her work has focused on migration and the psychological effects of linguistic and cultural alienation. She is the author of over ten collections of poetry, including Sōmoku no sora, winner of the Gendai Shi Techo Prize, and Kawara arekusa, winner of the Takami Jun Award; numerous essay collections and translations; and several novellas and novels, including Ranīnya, winner of the Noma Literary Prize, and Toge-nuki: Shin Sugamo Jizō engi, winner of the Hagiwara Sakutarō Prize and the Izumi Shikibu Prize. Itō’s first poetry collection translated into English is Killing Kanoko.

The Asian American Literary Review is a space for writers who consider the designation “Asian American” a fruitful starting point for artistic vision and community. In showcasing the work of established and emerging writers, the journal aims to incubate dialogues and, just as importantly, open those dialogues to regional, national, and international audiences of all constituencies. It selects work that is, as Marianne Moore once put it, “an expression of our needs…[and] feeling, modified by the writer’s moral and technical insights.”

Published biannually, AALR features fiction, poetry, creative nonfiction, comic art, interviews, and book reviews. Discover Nikkei will feature selected stories from their issues.

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